


Trying For A Bishop

by TheseusInTheMaze



Category: That Guy with the Glasses/Channel Awesome
Genre: Blood, Burtonland, Dubious Consent, F/M, Knifeplay, Menstruation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 10:47:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1602239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheseusInTheMaze/pseuds/TheseusInTheMaze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of course the Critic ended up in Burtonland again. Of fucking course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trying For A Bishop

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kink meme - Malice/Critic sex with knifeplay, blood and her topping. She thinks he's even crazier than she is, and he never denies it, so why the fuck not?

When the Critic found himself in the misty, grayscale landscape again, he didn't think too much of it. Over the course of his... tenure, for lack of a better term, he'd ended up in strange places. Sometimes he even went to them of his own power! And Burtonland was a strange place to begin with, so why not randomly appear in it in the middle of the night?

Even Malice wasn't a total surprise – Burtonland was pretty empty, all things considered, and it would make sense that the only... visitors (as it were) would run into each other. And he didn't have to deal with the damn rabbit. Besides, Malice was good company, as long as she wasn't handling sharp objects.

“It doesn't get that dark here at night, did you notice that?” Malice was walking beside the Critic, her hands clasped behind her back. She looked a bit like she was trying to walk a tightrope the wrong way. “You would think it would be the opposite, wouldn't you?”

The Critic was watching her out of the corner of his eye. Her knife was tucked into a pocket of her pinafore, and there was almost no blood on her. Maybe she'd had a chance to take a shower or something. It was Burtonland – maybe there was a creepy haunted bathroom in the background or something. 

“Nah, Burton can't film in pitch darkness, and anyway, the dim lighting is supposed to be spookier or something.” The Critic rolled his eyes. “I'm amazed time even passes here, to be honest.” 

“Well, of course time is passing,” said Malice. The scenery had transitioned... rather quickly, as it was wont to do in Burtonland, and now they were walking through a forest of spindly looking trees, and the huge yellow moon smirked down at them like an ugly neon sign. 

“You sure? The only thing I can see to differentiate the day from the night is that ridiculous moon, and I can totally see Burton just leaving it up for days or nights or whatever at a time 'cause he thinks it looks cool.” 

“I'm quite sure,” Malice said stiffly, and then she was taking her knife out, and the Critic felt a bit like his skin was trying to crawl to the other side of his body, the side away from her. She reached up and put a hand on his shoulder – the hand with no knife, thank God – and she pulled him to face her, so they were face to face (well, her forehead to his chin, but still). “You think I'm crazy, don't you?” The flat of the knife was on the Critic's side, not poking him, just... there, like a pen or a napkin. 

“Well, I have a few... doubts about your sanity stats,” the Critic said, trying to keep his tone light. She was very pretty, in a... Burton-esque kind of way. 

“I was framed,” said Malice, and the knife was skating up the Critic's side. It was a very sharp knife, and the Critic felt the cold air on his ribs as his shirt and jacket split. 

“Well, I mean, that sucks and all, but I've seen you disembowel someone for pissing you off,” the Critic pointed out in what he hoped was a calm and reasonable tone. “It's kinda hard to falsify that.” 

“When nobody believes you're sane, you might as well embrace it,” said Malice, and she brought the knife forward and across the Critic's chest. She didn't cut his tie, thankfully, but his chest was already breaking out in goosbumps from the bare spots on his chest. 

“That doesn't really make people think you're any more sane,” the Critic said. He could feel his cock waking up, and he didn't know why. Damn his thing for dominant, mildly unhinged women!

“Who is to say who is sane and who isn't?” Malice stood on tiptoe to kiss him, and the knife was against the Critic's neck, cold and sharp.

“This place is fucking with your brain, if it wasn't fucked up already,” the Critic mumbled, stooping down and kissing her. 

She tasted like herself, and a tiny bit like blood. Her lips were rough and chapped, and the knife was drawing a thin line along the Critic's neck.

“Nonsense,” Malice said, and she was standing on tiptoe, grabbing his tie to pull him down and licking along the cut on his neck. Her saliva stung. 

The Critic moaned, his hands balling into fists, fingernails digging into his palms. His head lolled back, and he sighed loudly. It was sharp, and it stung, his toes curling in his shoes and his back erupting in wave after wave of goosebumps. 

Malice was walking forward, and the Critic had no choice but to walk backwards, until his back was up against a tree, which was surprisingly strong for such a spindly thing. She grabbed his hands (letting go of his tie, finally) and moved them to the front of her pinafore, over her breasts. Her pinafore was thin, and so was her dress. He could feel the pricks of her nipples through the fabric – maybe the America McGee place she'd been mumbling about didn't go in for bras or something. 

The Critic held her small breasts in his hands, his thumbs on her nipples, kneading them gently. The tree against his back as cool in the yellow-neon moonlight, and Malice was warm against him. The Burtonland mist collected around his ankles.

“Are you sure this is the best idea?” The Critic's hands were working her breasts, and he could feel her sighs and moans against the skin of his neck, little huffs of warm air. That was... pretty hot, in fact, even with the sting of the cut from her licking and the cold promise of the knife against his skin. 

“What is “this”?” Malice gave the cut on his neck a final little kiss, then drew the knife across his chest, under his collarbone. The metal was sharp enough that he didn't feel the cut until she was licking it, and the sting was strong enough to make him hiss his breath in through his teeth. 

“I dunno, some kind of weird kinky vampire knife... thing,” the Critic said, letting go of one breast to hold on to her hair, for some strange form of security more than anything else. “I mean, dont' get me wrong, it fits the theme of the place to a fucking “t”, but....” His sentence got swallowed by a moan as her hand cupped his hard cock, squeezing it through the denim of his jeans.

“Hm....” Malice wore a thinking face. Then she brightened. “How about we fuck?” 

The Critic looked at her, somewhat confused. 'Weren't we already headed in that direction, what with your hand on my cock and my hands on your tits?” He shifted his hips, pushing more of his cock into her hand.

She shrugged, rubbing his cock with her palm and the flat of the knife along his chest. “You seem to believe I'm insane, and quite frankly, I can't follow your thought processes.” She pressed down on the knife, and the Critic winced as a thin cut opened up under his nipple. 

“... fair point,” the Critic said, and he ground his cock into her hand and tried to avoid the knife. It made him wriggle like a landed fish. “So yes. I'd like to fuck you.”

“Good,” Malice said cheerfully, and she shoved him, removing the knife and letting go of his cock. 

“Ow! The fuck was -” The Critic let himself be kissed, let himself be straddled, let her grind against him, her hair pattering down around his face like a curtain. He could feel the cool flat of the knife pressed against his ribs, and her hot little hand was spread over his chest, right where his heart was beating. 

“I do hope you don't mind trying for a bishop,” said Malice, and she was grinding her wetness against his crotch, her skirt spread out over them like an umbrella. “Not that any issue should come from this, bishop or otherwise.” She did something wriggly with her hips, & the Critic's back arched, nearly unseating her. She dug her bony knees in, and the Critic winced at the mix of pleasure/pain that was twisting through his body. 

“... what?” The Critic blinked up at her, confused and horny. “What the fuck are you talking about?” It was kind of hard to be patient when she was squirming on top of him like that, slippery and hot. As a bonus, the knife wasn't pressing into his ribs anymore either, although he couldn't see it or feel it at present. He took that as a good sign. 

Malice huffed through her nose in presumed annoyance and reached down, fiddling with his belt and pants, then pulling his cock out (somewhat awkwardly, due to the angle) and squeezing it in her hand. “The chances of me becoming with child are infinitesimal.” 

“Oh, you're on the Pill? I didn't know they gave that to mental patients.” The Critic squirmed under her, pushing his cock further into her hand. She was warm, her palm almost hot, and the knife was still out of sight, and he tried to keep it out of mind for the time being. 

“Well, no,” said Malice, and she grabbed his hand, pulling it under her dress and between her legs. The Critic felt tackiness and wetness smeared along her thighs, and he moved his hand along the soft, silky thigh until the tip of his finger found the spot that made her shiver and moan on top of him. 

“Mm....” She squirmed on top of him, and the Critic shivered as well. She looked spooky in the neon yellow moonlight, the trees casting creepy shadows across her face and striping her hair like some kind of creepy, Burtonesque tiger lady. “So me being on my courses doesn't bother you?”

“What?” The Critic pulled his hand away, squinting at it in the moonlight. He could smell the copper-iron on his fingertips, and he could see the blood under his fingernails. He made a face, wrinkling his nose. “You could've said you were on your period from the get-go, y'know,” he said, his hips still pushing against her. Blood or no blood, she was warm and solid against him, and real, if unsettling, compared to the ethereal nature of the rest of the landscape. She was stroking his cock, his precum sticky as it drooled across her fingers.

“It isn't exactly a thing that one brings up at the start of a conversation. Anyway, you didn't seem to object to all of the other blood things,” said Malice, and she let go of his cock with one hand to take his wrist. Her grip was strong, and there were calluses where she held her knife. Her tongue was dark in the moonlight, and the blood looked like ink on her lips. 

“You're messed up,” the Critic said casually, and he rocked his hips forward appreciatively as she did something tricky with her wrist that made the Critic's toes curl in his socks. 

“Are you telling me to stop?” Her tongue rasped across his fingertips as she lapped at them like a cat. 

“Nope,” the Critic said, and it was his turn to grin in a way that was probably mildly unsettling to anyone who wasn't in Burtonland. 

“Can't hurt to check,” Malice said, and she was still licking her lips as she let go of his wrist and took his cock back into her hand, shifting her own body, then getting up on her knees, getting his cock into position, then sliding down onto it. 

The Critic threw his head back, breathing heavily – she felt good, if... different. Then he felt the prick of the knife running across his chest, the tip making little figure eights that felt... cold, almost. They stung when she pressed down. The hot wetness surrounding his cock left him gasping and groaning, and that was... it was good, it was fucking _amazing_ , and it was an interesting conter point to the sting and the pain, and it felt good, if mildly squicky when he felt the extra wetness on his thighs. Although come to think of it, he'd gotten blood on him before – in her company, even. 

“Harder,” Malice grumbled, and she dug her knees into the Critic's sides, leaning forward. 

The Critic, ever mindful of the prick of the knife, grabbed Malice's hips, the fabric of her dress sliding under his palms. He was fucking her now, really fucking her, his hips thrusting hard, sweat dripping down the sides of his face. He could feel the cold knife (thought not nearly as cold as it had been), now pressed against his neck, and the cuts on his chest were bleeding sluggishly, staining Malice's pinafore and sticking to the fabric. 

Y-yes, very... mmm....” She squirmed on top of him, almost bouncing on his cock, and his hips were getng tired, and he wasn't used to going bareback, and he didn't realize how _hot_ it would be, temperature wise, almost like being scalded, and it was slippery enough that he was kind of worried that he would slip out. But he didn't really care, and all of those thoughts were an undercurrent, because the flat of the knife was pressed against his throat, and her breasts were soft against his chest, and her cunt was hot and tight and so wet, and he could feel himself beginning to get closer and closer to orgasm, like the water pulling back before a big wave. 

She was drawing the knife along his throat, and if he wasn't so horny he probably would have been pissing his pants in terror, but the terror was mixing with the arousal, and his whole body was getting tighter, stretched thin, like a balloon being filled. He felt the point of the knife against his earlobe, and he sobbed. That set off the chain reaction or... something, because he was cumming, his cock deep inside of her, spurting and throbbing, leaving him shaken and rung out, staring somewhat vacantly up at her in the yellow moonlight. 

Malice sat back, and she still had him inside of her. She rested on her heels, spreading her legs wider. She had one hand under her skirt and was working it furiously, gasping and moaning quietly. She had the knife in her other hand, thankfully no longer pressed against his neck, although now she was licking it, and he wasn't sure if that was much better. Well, it was less... threat to life and limb (as it were), but still. It was also... kinda hot. More than kinda, actually. Although he was fucked if he tried to figure out why, especially in the post orgasm haze, which was much more pleasant than the fog creeping around them. 

The Critic felt when Malice came, felt her tighten around him and spasm, felt the gush of fluid drip down to puddle in his groin. He stared up at her dazedly, still shaking a bit with the aftershocks of his own orgasm. He watched her head thrown back, and the little flecks of blood on the knife looked like the sparkles that catch in the sidewalk when you walk home late at night. 

“That was fun!” Malice leaned forward, her hair ticklish on the bits of the Critic's bare chest. His cock slid out of her with a wet noise, and the Critic winced when the clammy mist came into contact with the hot, wet skin of his softening cock. 

“So now what?” The Critic stretched luxuriously, or at least as luxuriously as he could on the forest floor, surrounded by creepy mist. 

“Well, you should wake up now,” said Malice. “After all, the endings of Burotn films are usually pretty stupid, aren't they?” She was fiddling with her dress, trying to get her skirt to sit right. She didn't seem to care about the blood on her thighs, but then again, she hadn't had a problem with any of the other blood on her, so why should the Critic be too surprised?

“What? That's fucking ridic-” 

The Critic jolted awake, his head coming up from his folded arms, nearly falling off of his chair. He rubbed his eyes and stretched, making a face at the cold, clammy spot in his jeans. Really? A wet dream? And a fucking weird one, at that. But seriously – what was he, fifteen? Then he caught sight of his fingers, and the red-brown under his nails. He wrinkled his nose – he wasn't sure if he was more disgusted by the dried blood, or the lazy ending! He'd have to check his chest for cuts later.

“Fucking Burton!”


End file.
